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A faint purple bruise sits above my collarbone. Near my shoulder, Jax’s tooth marks are still visible.

My fingers hover over them.

I remember his mouth there. His hand at my waist, holding me still. The sound I made when he bit down.

Heat gathers low in my stomach.

I let go of my hair.

I should be angry at the sight of those marks. Some part of me is. But another part remembers how he touched me afterward, how he drew me against him and kept me there until I fell asleep.

That’s the part I don’t know what to do with.

I crave the man who locks my door. I listen for his footsteps. When he reaches for me, I have to remind myself not to reach back.

Sometimes I don’t bother.

I turn on the cold tap and splash water over my face.

Aurora would be furious if she could see me now. She would tear through this house to get to me, then demand to know why I wasn’t already running.

Would I be able to explain?

I reach for a towel and press it against my face. I used to imagine our reunion so clearly: her arms around me, her voice telling me I was safe, that she’d take me home.

Lately, I get stuck on what comes after.

How do I sit across from her and admit that I waited all day for him to visit? That I let him hold me? That there were nights when I asked him to stay?

I lower the towel.

I don’t recognize the woman in the mirror. I’m not sure I would recognize the old Olivia, either. I can remember her clothes, her appointments, the things she used to worry about. I can’t remember the last time she was happy.

The deadbolt shifts in the bedroom door.

I hang up the towel and reach for the silk robe on the hook. By the time I tie it around my waist and step into the bedroom, the door is opening.

Jax stands in the doorway, one hand on a silver breakfast cart.

His charcoal jacket is open over a white shirt. No tie. His dark hair is swept back, exposing the scar along his jaw.

His eyes find mine.

I hate how quickly I look for his expression. Whether he’s tired. Whether something has angered him. Whether he’s pleased to see me.

This morning, his gaze moves over my face, then settles on my mouth.

“Morning.”

The smell of coffee reaches me as he pushes the cart inside. Beside the pot are fresh pastries, including the almond croissant I used to order at the little French café in the city.

I mentioned that café once.

He parks the cart beside the window table and pulls out a chair.

Then he waits.

I could refuse. I could stand here until the coffee goes cold and tell myself I’ve won something.